


Cherubim

by LilyChenAppreciationSociety



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Gen, Malcolm is very very messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyChenAppreciationSociety/pseuds/LilyChenAppreciationSociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates them, he despises them, he wants them dead. He pities them. They're only children. </p>
<p>Malcolm deals with the Blackthorns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to (http://marcythewerewolf.tumblr.com/post/140894714149/)

The Blackthorns still have her eyes. 

It’s farcical, how even a century later she shows up out of nowhere, like a lost sock or your car keys which your already paid to have replaced. And it’s unpalatable that the children of those who had held her down and buried her, hadn’t even had the guts to spill her blood but had simply hidden her away to die in the dark, should wear the same features that he had once so adored. 

The eyes are the big things, but there’s other markers of relationship, so subtle no one but he could notice. Sometimes even he wonders if he’s simply imagining it. 

Tiberius, with his blessed grey eyes, has hair too dark and curly to be quite like Annabel’s, but with the same soft sheen. Livia’s lips are just a little too full to be quite like hers, but just enough alike to hurt. Drusilla grows quickly, like she did, in those late childhood years when she could rest her chin on the top of Malcolm’s head with just a bit of stretching. Little Octavian wears her sober smile too well, even though by all rights he doesn’t deserve it. 

Julian rolls his eyes, almost the same mixture of exasperation and fondness, the formula just a little off. Arthur’s old fashioned manner of speech echoes how it had been when they were young, Annabel and he. 

And young Emma Carstairs, of course, looks like her parents before they died, ready to fight. That at least is justifiable, for Annabel’s family to hold her hostage so long after her death is not. 

Ghosts in every corner of the Los Angeles Institute, wearing trusting little faces and humming with palpable delight every time he enters a room. He’s Malcolm after all, silly, dependable Malcolm. Warlocks are easily bought and they believe he’s theirs. 

 

 

Tavvy sits and plays with him for hours, they play together, really. Malcolm knows the others think him infantile, and perhaps they’re right, because he finds it easy to follow the pattern of toddler jabber, as sharks swim the ocean blue and heroes rescue the teeming masses from train crashes. 

“You’re dead!” Octavian declares sadly, pressing into Malcolm’s chest with one four year old hand that has just lost what baby pudginess it had kept after his father’s death. 

Malcolm obligingly collapses to the floor, and cracks his eyes to see Tavvy examining him with care. The Blackthorns’ games rarely involve the loss and drama he’s seen from other children through the ages. It’s much less fun to play “Homeless Orphans” when you actually are orphans, whose home is stained with blood. 

Tavvy kneels and pats his face. “You’re alive again.” he whispers, and Malcolm sits up, pulls the little boy close to him. 

“It’s always so much better to be alive than dead, don’t you think?” he says, punctuating it with a burst of purple sparks that make Octavian giggle with delight before squirming away to fetch a book.

“Do you want me to read to you?” Malcolm asks, sighing because it sounds much less thrilling than the saga of lost love and pirates they had been constructing minutes before. 

“I’ll read.” Tavvy says, sitting on Malcolm’s lap and opening the book. 

“I hope it has a good love story.” Malcolm says with some doubt. He shouldn’t expect much from ‘Clifford the Big Red Dog’, but it’s always good to hope. 

“Poor thing.” he says later, when Tavvy has crashed out for a nap on a pile of pillows. He hopes Diana comes soon, he needs to talk with her badly, and the other children are all training. 

“Poor Blackthorn baby, your family really doesn’t deserve you.”

 

 

Julian and Emma sit on either side of Diana in his living room while they talk magic. Diana thinks it’s important to for them to hear the tenets of magic from someone who actually uses it. It’s an admirable stance, for one of the bloody angels. 

He can hear the other children, because of course Diana and Julian couldn’t leave them alone with only their quiet uncle for company, in his room. He’d told them to go jump on his bed, because it is exceptionally bouncy and deserves to be appreciated. The soft thumps are a comforting backtrack as he struggles to explain the difference between Eastern and Western conceptions of demonology in words that fifteen year olds can understand, when even he’s not always sure he understands it. 

Then there’s a crash and a shriek, and the thumping stops and they’re all on their feet to see who if anyone has cracked their skull open. Malcolm is first, because he has the most expertise with on the spot healing of bone fractures, and more importantly because his legs are longer. 

Besides, he’s seen dead Blackthorns before.

All the little Blackthorns are in one piece, but the ceramic artwork on the wall is not. He’s actually impressed that they’d managed to jump hard enough to rock the house. 

“Sorry, Malcolm.” Livia says contritely, and then Julian says the same seconds later, more panicked. 

“Not a problem.” He says, as it jumps back together before his hands. “Magic can fix anything but a bad hair day. Believe me, I’ve tried. Nice bed jumping, all of you.”

Julian seems less approving. “Malcolm is exaggerating to be nice. There’s lots of things magic can’t fix. If any of you had died, for example. I knew this was a bad, idea, everyone down.”

The children pout and climb off his mattress and Malcolm tuts. 

“Can’t and shouldn’t are different, Julian Blackthorn. Necromancy is not a good idea, but it is feasible. And bad. Very bad.”

Julian rolls his eyes like Annabel, but smiles in thanks. “More lessons to remember from Malcolm. Come on, you guys can sit with us.” He’s still wearing his hunch shouldered posture of apology, like a parent with naughty children. Malcolm’s rather offended on Julian’s brothers’ and sisters’ behalf, nothing was irreparably damaged. 

“Julian, I think they’re a little young for this.” Diana warns. 

“No one’s ever too young for demon summoning.” Malcolm says, offense forgotten. “Come along, Drusilla, you can sit with me.” 

They lean against him as he talks, heavy and thrumming with the energy of children, even as he himself fidgets, making an unstable line of bodies, bound to fall over at any minute. 

When they do all tumble off the couch it’s more funny than painful. 

 

 

“They’d hate you.” Malcolm says, running a hand through Tiberius’s curls. The twins are both out cold, drugged up by Malcolm himself until they sleep the fever off. He could cut their hearts out and they wouldn’t feel a thing. 

“If you showed the slightest sign of turning out decent, they’d turn on you.” he continues as the children slumber in their older brother’s bed. The mundane flu, almost undignified for the cruel angels who haunt Malcolm’s waking dreams. But, they are just children, whose broken blood hasn’t broken them completely yet. 

“I’ve seen it before. I’ll probably see it again. They’d bleed you dry for defiling their blood line or throw you out of the street for daring to love like something so low as a human.” 

The boy’s hair is dark, darker than his sister’s, closer to Annabel’s black-brown, even though of the two of them Livia is the one who looks most like her. 

“It’s such a shame.” Malcolm whispers, patting their heads affectionately, first Tiberius and then Livia. 

Asleep they look so much younger, blankets covering the wicked sharp lines of their runes, none of the blushing they’d been doing around him of late, as if they dared to love him. 

Annabel would love them, would have loved them. Malcolm cannot, he promised he wouldn’t. 

It’s hard.


	2. Medical Talks

“Thank you.” Arthur said hoarsely. It was a strange greeting and Malcolm paused in the doorway to process it.

“Say that after you’ve drunk your medicine.” Malcolm answered, after some thought. “I put some truly vile things in this time, to try to cut back on the headaches.”

Arthur flinched. “Do you want me to try it?” he asked, still looking at the book in front of him.

Malcolm sat of the edge of the desk, trying not to upset the teetering stacks of paper. “That’s why I came!”

He didn’t mind helping Arthur, keeping him healthy meant keeping the Blackthorns together and nearby. Besides, denying him treatment would be cruel, and however much Malcolm hated the Blackthorn name he didn’t think of himself as cruel. He was simply righting a wrong.

Arthur took the little bottle in shaking hands and downed it without seeming to register the contents. Malcolm made a face for him, out of sympathy. When he looked up again Arthur Blackthorn’s eyes seemed a little clearer, a little more focused, but not by much.

“How do you feel?” Malcolm prompted.

“Tired.”

“Not good then.” Malcolm sighed, taking the empty glass bottle from Arthur’s fingers and tucking it inside his pockets.

His patient shrugged. “It’s been a good day. I’ve gotten a lot done, Andrew came up and helped, and then Julian did. And I thought…” his brow furrowed, “I thought I should thank you.”

“I do like thanks,” Malcolm admitted. “But taking care of you and the Institute is part of my job and I get paid ludicrous sums of money by your Clave to do so.”

Arthur shook his head, “No, thank you, for helping with the children. I saw you with Drusilla and Octavian the other day.”

They’d been playing castle, Malcolm remembered. He loved their games. It was easy to forget what children they were, easier to pretend with them.

“They’re a fine group of children.” He said truthfully. “Good taste in types of monarchy. Constitutional, always the best.”

“They’re Andrew’s,“Arthur whispered. "He came to talk to me the other day, even though I knew it wasn’t truly him. It was only my imagination. I imagine too often. I haven’t been able to take care of Andrew’s children.”

“It is only because of you that they’re not scattered to the winds.” Malcolm pointed out.

“I let them take Andrew’s eldest son and daughter.” Arthur continued, heedless, “And now I cannot take care of the little ones. I have not been a very good uncle, my role as pater familias in Andrew’s absence has been lacking .”

Malcolm could soothe a crying child and patch up a stone faced bleeding teen. He did not know what to do with the man in front of him, frail and yet somehow still keeping himself together. He did not know if he could reassure a Blackthorn that his love of family was true.

“You did what you could and attempted what you could not. If we asked for more we’d be a very extinct group of species, like dinosaurs.”

Arthur nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Malcolm Fade. But thank you for being there for them all the same, for when I could not be their uncle. Children should have someone.”

Malcolm stood abruptly and brushed off his t-shirt. “I should get going, places to go, I think. Probably. I could have places to go, at least. What’s the verdict on the latest recipe?”

“Not as strong as the old one.” Arthur decided. “Not nearly strong enough. I need my head clear.”

“Are you sure?” Malcolm asked. “So far you haven’t collapsed in pain. That’s often considered a medical advantage.”

“I need the old one.” Arthur said, scribbling something on the paper in front of him. “For Andrew’s children.”

He seemed intent again, lost in his own little world, and he looked so sad. It was not his fault his mind was fighting him, Malcolm almost felt sorry for him, and was strangely proud of every time Arthur fought back. Always for his work, or his family.

It consistently came down to family for the Blackthorns. Family honour, family name, family love, all bitter and so often destructive. Malcolm didn’t want it. He hated that they kept trying to drag him in make him complicit.

Annabel’s sister’s blood waved at him on the way out.

Uncle indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst Fadethorn.
> 
> Originally posted to, (http://marcythewerewolf.tumblr.com/post/141291437084/)
> 
> "Speed Fadethorn. I have an hour until I go on self enforced lockdown. Let’s see if we can get this in.
> 
> For malcolm-faede whose lymphatic system I am prepared to beat senseless for the sake of her health. That’s how it works, right?"

“I bet you can do it.” said Livvy, the eternal optimist.

Ty wrinkled his nose and adjusted his headphones. Livvy was possibly the sole person he almost never wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from, but teenager hood had been testing that.

Just three months after their birthday and she had already gotten in trouble with Diana seven times, nearly lit her bedroom on fire lighting the decorative candles Emma had bought her, and had managed to drive Church away from the house for a record breaking two weeks by trying to convince him to eat cat treats.

And then there was the matter of Malcolm.

Sometime around spring Ty had started noticing that Malcolm was nice. Very nice. This has always been a given before, Malcolm was like a kindly slightly eccentric doting cousin who never pushed Ty’s boundaries and always knew when and how to comfort him. But in the face of the chaos of growing up, Malcolm’s kindness suddenly meant a lot more.

So did his thin quick hands, and his soothing accent, and the way he was everything Ty wasn’t, emotional when Ty was closed off, talkative when he was quiet, and vice versa. He tripped over his own feet and never minded when Ty laughed, and he was always willing to talk magic with him.

Livvy called it a crush. That didn’t sound right, it was too violent and ended on an awful breathy shhhh sound. But her case for it was convincing, helped along by the fact that she readily admitted to having a ‘crush’ too. They both thought Malcolm was pretty, Ty remembered Livvy cooing over his purple eyes and how he hadn’t been able to help agreeing. And they wanted to spend more time with Malcolm, because he loved magic and romance stories and was always ready to help. And it was making both of them feel strange, a little off balance, like coming into a room someone had shifted the furniture in.

This did not, however, mean that Ty agreed with Livvy’s plan of action.

“I don’t want to.” Ty said obstinately, because all logical argument had failed. Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a twin sister, Ty thought, almost wistful.

“But you do. I know you do, Ty-ty.” Livvy replied, slipping half into the cadences and lisps of their childhood code. “And I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Livia lowered her voice. “I don’t think he likes girls. Emma said judging is bad, but Malcolm never talks about a girlfriend. Besides, he likes you better. You’re both all bookish.”

Ty considered this, then pulled out his trump card. “He’s too old. Remember the rule?”

The Rule was another one of Emma’s pearls of wisdom. It said you weren’t allowed to date anyone more or less than half you age plus seven, until you hit twenty five, or were very mature like Emma. Then you could do whatever you wanted.

“Age doesn’t count with warlocks!” Liv declared triumphantly.

“I think it does.”

“Well it doesn’t, Ty. Look at Magnus Bane? He’s a role model, he’s even on the Council. Besides, I know you want to try. You like Malcolm.” Livvy’s eyes were wide and pleading.

Ty shook his head again, and leaned away as Livvy turned to whisper something in his ear. But she was faster and caught him by the ear, and so her message was successfully passed on, to everyone’s later dismay.

Her twin froze, considering the offer. “Fine.” Ty decided. “But you have to tell me what to say.”

“Done.”

* * *

 

Malcolm had spent a lot of time at the Institute lately, primarily to treat Emma’s wounds. She was going through what Diana was calling her Scrappy Stage.

(Calling it a stage left everyone hopeful it was something she’d eventually grow out of.)

Broken bones could take a while to heal even with iratzes, and Malcolm was often called over to cluck at Emma with good natured dismay and fix her latest injury. Today it was ribs.

Purple magic knit Emma’s bones and flesh then conjured up a heart shaped lollypop, and then Malcolm hopped back towards the stairs to the door, probably eager to be on his way.

As planned by Livvy, Ty was waiting for him at the top of the landing.

“Hello Tiberius.” Malcolm said, all violet eyes and fair regard. “Am I invited to dinner again?”

“Jules didn’t say anything.” Ty mumbled, then mustered his reserves of inner strength and proclaimed in a firm if soft voice, “I like your hair.”

Malcolm touched his head self consciously. His hand came away slightly bloody, the occupational hazards of nursing.

“Thank you?”

“I like your hair.” Ty repeated, building up steam. “It’s very nice.”

Malcolm looked dazed. Ty continued.

“And you’re always very nice, too. And that’s nice.”

Malcolm blinked, but his eyes still seemed far off.

“And you’re also magical, literally.” This was where Livy had blushed and perhaps through some twin power Ty felt himself turning a faint pink too. “And I was wondering if you wanted to come over sometime and have tea.”

That part had been Ty’s idea. Malcolm had never confessed any particular love of tea, but it was English, like Malcolm, and it was safe. Coming over for tea could mean lots of things, so it was subtle.

Ty stopped and waited for Malcolm to make up his mind. It was rather more sudden than he expected. A few seconds after his offer Malcolm’s eyes darkened and his thin bemused features twisted.

“You want…?” Malcolm said his voice hard. Ty took a step back, concerned he’d messed up, that he’d done it wrong. Malcolm might be cross, maybe even for days. But the anger was gone as soon as it appeared and Malcolm sagged against the bannister. “Oh god.” he said softly, like a prayer.

“I’m sorry?” Ty offered, or tried to. The words seemed to die in his throat before they even had a chance to live.

Malcolm wasn’t looking at him, and he was talking softly. “Oh, God. This is just salt and lemon juice.” he muttered, his voice and face strange. Malcolm, but not Malcolm. “This is a late revenge.”

Ty stepped even further back as Julian appeared at the end of the hall way.

“Is Malcolm crying?” he asked.

* * *

 

“So I think age does matter with warlocks after all.” Ty concluded after he finished telling Livvy of his failed flirtation.

His sister patted his arm lightly. “I’m sorry Ty. And I hope Malcolm is okay.”

“He seemed better when he left.” Ty reported. “I think he was just concerned. You know Malcolm can be weird sometimes.”

Livvy nodded, though she didn’t look entirely reassured. “Now, I think I promised you a Agatha Christie audiobook?”

Ty nodded, but even a mystery couldn’t fully assuage his guilt over Malcolm’s hurt. This, he decided, was where flirting got you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to: http://marcythewerewolf.tumblr.com/post/142047905764/

Julian thought it must have been very cozy when he was a baby. The nursery was at the end of the hall, Shadowhunters were old fashioned and children tended to live there until they were of a certain age. He and Mark had slept there. Their parents had been in the first room next the nursery, and Helen had slept in the room across from them. A little family of five in three rooms in the sprawling Institute. 

Then the twins had been born and Mark had moved out of the nursery to the room next to Helen, the room he’d lived in for the rest of his life, until the war had taken him. Dru had come, small and screaming, had slept with their parents for a few months before transferring to the nursery and Julian had begged to be allowed his own room even though he was only four. He had taken the one across from Mark. They were in no danger of running out of space, the hallways stretched on for what seemed like miles from the corner where the Blackthorn family lived.

Julian remembered sliding down the polished floors in his socks as a child, from the nursery door to the end of the hall and back again, and laughing.

When the twins were six they’d quietly petitioned to move out of the nursery as well and had taken rooms across the hall from each other, and had then proceeded to sleep with their doors open for years, so they could still see each other.

The nursery had been Dru’s domain alone, at least at night. During the day they had all piled in and played with the piles of toys that just accumulated when you had multiple children. They’d taken their lessons stretched out on the rug and had sparred with toy swords and Ty had curled up surrounded by cushions to read. The wide windows let in light and seaside air, and it was perfect.

Even after their mother had died and Tavvy had been there, small and helpless and wailing, Dru had stayed in the nursery. She had a little bed with a canopy and pink blankets, a fairy tale corner for their fairy tale girl. It was their sanctuary and refuge, where they went to sit and play with the baby and lie together on the floor, all together.

Apparently it wasn’t a sanctuary anymore, Julian thought, as he dragged Dru’s belongings out. She’d refused to sleep there when they got back from Idris, and Julian had let her stay in his room for a while, hoping she would change her mind. But Dru had remained adamant. She would never stay there again.

She was eight, more than old enough to have her own room. It was fine, really. The fact that Tavvy also refused to even set foot in the nursery was less so.

“What are you doing?” asked a voice from somewhere above Julian’s bowed head. Artfully ripped blue jeans and and a pair of what looked like stunningly expensive flip flops appeared before him. Malcolm. The High Warlock had been frequenting the Institute a lot since the war, forever popping in to offer help with something or another. Julian was still a little awestruck, but he had to admit that Malcolm had been a huge help.

“Moving Dru’s toys.” Julian said. “She’s moving to the room down there.” he nodded to the open door next to Livvy’s. Malcolm looked over at Dru, who was hovering by the nursery door and holding Tavvy in her arms. She looked too small to be carrying a toddler, Tavvy was almost half her size.

“Is anyone else helping you?” Malcolm inquired, looking genuinely concerned.

Julian shook his head. “The others have training, Diana said I could skip to keep working on this. I’m fine.” His arms hurt and so did his back, but he could do it.

“Let me help.” Malcolm said.

“No-”

“I insist. This will be much easier with a warlock’s assistance.” Malcolm picked up the bag from the floor, where Julian had been dragging it. He made it look so easy.

Julian straightened up to his full height, still a solid two feet shorter than the warlock, and followed Malcolm as he traipsed to Dru’s new room in a few easy strides and dropped the bag on the floor.

“Now, what else is there?” 

A few minutes later Malcolm was surveying the nursery while Tavvy fussed in Julian’s arms.

“This is a very nice place to grow up.” he said, something close to envy in his voice as he looked at the neat shelves of toys, the crib and changing table, Dru’s princess bed, and the stunning view.

“Well, I hate it now.” Dru said firmly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Malcolm looked to Julian for clarification and Julian said, in the most neutral tone he could manage, “Drusilla and Octavian were here when the Institute was attacked.”

“Oh, yes, awful, awful business.” Malcolm muttered sympathetically, looking away. “Well, Drusilla, show me what needs to go in your brand new room.”

Dru slipped out from behind Julian and moved around the room, pointing to pieces of furniture and toys, which Malcolm would then wave his hand and transport to her room. Julian had to admit, it was infinitely easier than lugging it all there. He’d had serious concerns about how he was going to move the bed.

“Is that all?” Malcolm asked, looking at everything left in the room. Dru nodded.

“Thank you.” Julian said, aware that it wasn’t enough.

Malcolm gave a quick unsteady bow. “My pleasure.”

Dru’s small voice rang out. “What about Tavvy’s room?”

“What about Tavvy’s room?” Malcolm asked, raising one eyebrow. He had a good face for being inquisitive.

“Dru, I don’t think-” Julian began.

“He hates it here.” she scowled. “He does, Jules.”

“I know, but he’s still a baby. He’s supposed to be in the nursery. It’s closer to my room.”

Julian said, the arguments sounding tired.

“I want my room.” Tavvy said, clear and sharp even in his baby tones. “Not here.”

Malcolm tilted his head. “Drusilla, why don’t you take your baby brother and go look at your room. I’m afraid I might not have organized everything well.”

Dru was eight, not stupid. She knew something was up. She still grabbed Tavvy’s hand after he squirmed out of Jules arm’s and went down the hall, docile as a sheep. She respected Malcolm more than she did him, Julian thought bitterly.

Malcolm sat on the rug, long legs crossed, and patted the floor next to him. “Come tell me what the problem is, Julian Blackthorn.”

Julain didn’t sit but he did wander over to Malcolm. It would have been rude not to. “It’s complicated.” he said.

Malcolm grabbed his hand and pulled him down, he was stronger than he looked. “Believe me,” he said, more serious than Julian had ever seen him. “I know complicated. Talk.”

“This is where we all lived, except Helen, I guess, until we were at least four.” Julian explained. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud. “It was always a good place, for us. I don’t want to see that ruined. And Tavvy is still so little…. it just feels like…”

“Like if you let him leave so young it would be admitting that the war managed to end his childhood before it even begun.” Malcolm finished. “And you don’t want that. You want him to have what you had.”

Julian nodded, feeling like he was about to start blushing or crying or both. But he couldn’t cry.

“People grow up at different rates.” Malcolm offered. “And in different ways. The Dark War was hard on your family, I know. And I know Shadowhunters tend to….. coddle their children, or think of them as extensions of themselves, their family, their family honour. But you cannot expect a child to be the same as you are. I have seen countless tragedies when people could not accept their choices. Octavian has been through a lot. It is not your failing if he has different needs than you did. Let him have what he wants, and he’ll be better for it.” Malcolm smiled. “Besides, it isn’t like you don’t have the space.”

It made sense, Julian knw that. But it still felt wrong, to let the light filled playroom of their childhood become another closed off room, like Helen’s, like Mark’s, like Mom and Dad’s.

Malcolm put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, you tell me what Octavian needs, and I’ll handle it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.” Julian said quickly.

“Shadowhunters can ask a lot, in my experience.” Malcolm said mildly. “Besides, I want to. I’ve grown fond of you children, and I have some history with the Blackthorn family. Go help your sister, ”

Most of Tavvy’s clothes and toys were already in Julian’s room. He pointed out a handful of furniture pieces, and the big toy chest, and fled the room gratefully. He was starting to wonder what they’d do without Malcolm.

Julian stopped short at Dru’s door.

“Julian!” she cried. “Look what Malcolm did!”

The walls were bright lavender. The curtains were purple. The bed stood in the middle of the room, on a little platform, the bedspread a tasteful violet. It looked like a purple tornado had been through. Dru was standing in the middle of the room, drinking it all in and grinning. Tavvy just looked startled.

Julian had known he wasn’t the High Warlock of LA for nothing, but this was something else entirely.

“Let’s- let’s go get your clothes.” he said.

By the time that all of Dru’s clothing was folded up in her dresser of hanging in the (purple) closet Julian felt a little more confident in trusting Malcolm. Yes, he could be odd at times, but he hadn’t steered them wrong yet. And it was nice and totally unnecessary for him to help them.

They were sorting through toys, Tavvy not quite helping, when there was a footfall in the hallway and Dru ran over to Malcolm.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she said, clinging to Malcolm’s shirt. “I love purple.”

“I’m fond of it too.” Malcolm said, carefully detaching her fingers from his clothing. His eyes were dark and despite his smile he looked almost uncomfortable.

“It looks like a princess room from a fairytale.”

“I love fairytales.” Malcolm sighed, crouching so he was on Dru’s level. “All those happy endings. I’m glad I could give you one, Drusilla Blackthorn.”

He looked over to Julian. “I finished Octavian’s room.”

Julian felt like they had moved past all thanks, but he had to try anyways. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” Malcolm repeated, but like Julian’s thanks it seemed to have grown thin.

“My room?” Tavvy asked.

“Your room.” Julian confirmed. “Thanks to Malcolm. Let’s go look.”

It was blue and soft. Strings of lights hung from the ceiling, high enough up that Tavvy couldn’t grab them, and there was a carpet on the floor. Tavvy’s crib was pushed against the wall, leaving lots of room to play. It was a child’s room, every inch of it, just as much as the nursery had been.

Julian wasn’t sure he could ever pay Malcolm back for it. Tavvy ran over to play with the toys, artfully scattered across the floor, and Dru joined him with the patience of a big sister.

Malcolm had turned away. “I should get going.”

“Sorry for keeping you so long.” Julian said.

“After your uncle turned me away I had some spare time anyway. Besides, I do love happy endings.” Malcolm sounded wistful. He was a strange bird, Julian knew, but in a good way.

“I’m sure Uncle Arthur is just having a difficult day.” Julian assured him. “He just arrived a few weeks ago.”

“A difficult day.” Malcolm mused. “Just like the last three times?” Julian flushed. “I’ll be back on Friday, I think. I’ll check in on you children then. Don’t work yourself too hard.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Julian assured him. “And I’ll be fine.”

“I’ve taken an interest in you children’s safety.” Malcolm said brightly, turning away. “Besides, I owe the Blackthorns something. Payback, you might call it.”

Julian smiled. In the midst of all the chaos, Malcolm was a trustworthy constant. Julian was starting to wonder what they’d do without him. In his new room Tavvy was laughing.


End file.
